


Fedele

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abstract Father/Son Relationships, Canon Compliant (by virtue of not being shown otherwise in the show), Gen, Major Character Death is canon-compliant (more or less), Missing Scenes, Revenge killing, Spoilers for episode 4x15, character backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 05:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14909352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: "You've always been the loyal son."





	Fedele

**Author's Note:**

> "Fedele": Italian translation of "faithful".
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no characters, events, or plot points related to or stemming from the "Gotham" TV series. I'm just playing in the sandbox. :)

“The boy isn’t much for talking.” Miss Greenwood says, in a hushed tone to give the impression of respectful whispers when it’s anything but. “You might have a time trying to get anything from him.”

The other man says something, but the boy can’t hear him.

Miss Greenwood’s response is much more audible. “The others boys are…uneasy around him.”

What she means to say is, the other boys are terrified of him; give him the kind of wide berth you give a rabid animal. But she won’t actually say the words. She’s too diplomatic about these things – except when she’s talking to the other case workers. When she thinks the boy can’t hear.

(But he always hears.)

The man says nothing to Miss Greenwood. He takes a few steps forward and sits down beside the boy with a comfortable posture. The man isn’t big, or physically imposing, but there’s something else about him that makes people shut up and listen, or do nothing until they’re told.

“What’s your name, young man?” the man’s voice is calm.

“Victor.” The boy twirls his knife between thin pale fingers, watching the way light reflects on the blade.

“That’s a fine knife, Victor.” The man says, as if there’s nothing unusual about this pale wisp of an orphan, hollow-eyed and much too thin for the orphanage hand-me-downs which hang comically on his frame, playing with a blade like most do plastic trucks and playing cards. “Where did you get it?”

“I didn’t steal it.” The boy snaps, immediately defensive.

“Never said you did.”

The boy pauses, considers the assurance, then looks back to the knife and his diluted reflection on the metal. “It was my dad’s.”

He wonders, now, if the old man is going to ask questions. The others – men and their women, passing through like touring a museum, or a zoo, with fake smiles and fat pockets – always ask. His answer always seems to put them off. He’s not sure why. There must be something about the orphan of wealthy people that puts them off, or maybe it’s the way his parents went away and never came back that doesn’t sound normal when coming from his quiet tones.

(Miss Greenwood says it’s something in his eyes: something ‘not right’. She doesn’t say that to him, of course, but he hears it all the same.)

The old man puts a hand on the thin shoulder; it reminds Victor of the way his father would touch him. “You can bring it with you.”

“Okay.” He says, then pauses. That doesn’t sound polite; Mother would be upset to think her boy was forgetting his manners. He tries again, “Thank you, sir.”

The old man smiles.

***

He’s two days past eighteen. Don Falcone invites him to take a seat at the family dinner table. Mario makes a face. “The hired help, Father?”

“Jealous, brother?” Sofia replies; her dark eyes slide across the table to Victor and she smiles at him. 

(She’s been smiling at him quite a bit, as of late.)

“Of the errand boy?” Mario looks ready to say more, but doesn’t. Don Falcone gives him a look, and when he gives this particular look, it’s only meant to be given once.

“Sit, Victor.” Don Falcone says, and Victor does. He obeys, now, and speaks only when he has something to say.

Mario glares, at him or at life in general, and a razor-thin smile teases Victor’s lips.

***

At twenty-one, Don Falcone summons him for a private conversation in the study. The don sits comfortably in his chair, a glass of brandy in one hand. Victor knocks on the study doors, and waits for permission to enter. The fact both doors are wide open means nothing to him.

Don Falcone gestures him into the nearby chair. He wears a pleased expression and welcoming smile. Victor sits, posture perfect. Some of the family debate if it’s practiced to perfection or if it was always this way. They have this debate over most things, when it comes to Victor.

(Most of those things are not as innocent as posture.)

“You’re being wasted on errand duty.” Don Falcone says. He never wastes time getting to the point. “From now on, I want you only for special tasks.”

“Thank you, sir.” Victor murmurs, head bowed in reverence. His hands still tingle, scrubbed fresh from the morning’s work.

Don Falcone takes a sip from his glass. “You do good work, Victor.” He says, softer this time. “Never forget that.”

***

The apartment is silent but well-lit. Victor works without noise, long fingers far more adept at healing than they have a right to be. His eyes see all: the bruises blossoming in shades of red; the forehead injury, tempered under the sheen of ointment, but still ugly in form; the raw rub of rope around his wrists…

“Hush, young man.” Don Falcone says, tenderly. “You’re sighing again.”

He blinks. “Sorry, sir.”

He finishes with the first aid kit and puts it away. Gets Don Falcone a glass of ice water. It’s all he has. Victor doesn’t keep alcohol on hand, as a general rule.

The old man drinks it, slowly. “I’m leaving, Victor.” He says, eventually. “It’s time for me to retire.”

Victor pauses. “Where will you go, sir?”

“My home in the South.”

Victor remembers the place well enough. Don Falcone used to spend winters there. He’s never spoken about retiring there. He’s never spoken about retiring at all. “Let me go with you, sir.” He asks, softly.

“No.” Don Falcone shakes his head and sets the empty glass aside. “I need you here, Victor. I want you to keep an eye on him.” It doesn’t need to be asked, who Don Falcone is talking about. “I’m sure he’ll compensate you well.” 

Victor frowns, the expression a tight crease between ivory brows. “It was never about money, sir.”

Now, the retired don goes quiet. It’s several minutes before he speaks again. “I know, Victor.” His tone is soft.

He almost sounds…sad.

***

It’s been three years. Penguin pays him well, and work is good. The new King always has something for Victor to do, without much regard for human rights. He’s certainly never bored.

Still, when Don Falcone calls, Victor answers.

The don looks thin and old. Tired. But when Victor walks through the door, blue eyes seem a little brighter and he sits up a little straighter. Like the long-lost who finally see something familiar. Something—or someone—safe.

They talk for hours, well into the night. Eventually, it’s only Don Falcone talking.

Victor is silent, even after the don stops talking. Then he looks up. “How long?”

“Some doctors say weeks. Some say months. One optimist said a handful of years.” Don Falcone sighs, as if the whole affair has become exhausting. Tiresome. Victor can understand. Eventually, the death of his parents became a weary topic. Too many people, too many questions; eventually, it saps a twelve-year-old boy of his ability to grieve properly. “No one knows for certain.”

A pause, then the old man speaks again. “Mario is dead.” He says, grief still clinging to the back of his throat. “Sofia…I had hoped…” he pauses, again, and a frown creases his aged features, “…But she is a disappointment.”

This time, Don Falcone doesn’t stay silent for long. “Have you ever feared something you had a part in creating?”

Victor sits up a little straighter. “Sir?”

Don Falcone blinks, then shakes his head. He smiles, as if to wave away his words. “Never mind.” He shakes his head and leans into the chair. “I’m tired…I think I’ll sleep now.”

“Yes, sir.” Victor stands to leave.

“I’d like you to stay, Victor.” Don Falcone murmurs. “Please.”

Victor pauses. The elder has never asked anything of him. “…Yes, sir.”

The don nods his thanks, “Good night, son.”

***

However long Don Falcone was meant to have, it was never supposed to be just one day.

Victor barely hears the bullet eject from the chamber, but he feels its shape in his hand, his fingers. He thinks of the first time Don Falcone placed a gun in his hand and told him to ‘try it out’. Those who stood around, watching, wore smirks and traded bets. Don Falcone’s expression was focused, serious and studying the boy in front of him.

And when Victor sent the first bullet, unerringly, into the target’s head, it was Don Falcone smiling at him.

He slips the bullet into the jacket folds; squeezes it once.

_“Good night, son.”_

He walks away, Penguin shouting after him.

***

Sofia is the last Falcone, so Victor bends the knee. But it’s not the same.

He hears about her exiling Lee Thompkins (her sister-in-law, family by marriage, even if not by blood), taking one hand as a souvenir, and remembers Don Falcone treating the doctor kindly, as though she was already his daughter. He watches her pitch a glass into the fireplace, vocalizing her fury, and sees her as the sixteen-year-old screaming curses because Mario ruined her dress.

She’s the last Falcone, so Victor obeys her orders. But in the back of his mind, he still hears Don Falcone’s voice:

_“Have you ever feared something you had a part in creating?”_

…and in the back of his mind, Victor wonders.

***

Word of Sofia catching a bullet in the head spreads quickly. The lack of guilt, for not staying with her all the while, doesn’t bother Victor as much as it should. He knows, were this Don Falcone, the guilt would be overwhelming.

(There’s a different guilt he feels, walking silently down the hospital hall.)

He’s had time to think. Reflect. Reevaluate.

Time heals all wounds, the old adage says. For Victor, it also reveals the truth.

He quietly steps into Sofia’s hospital room. Shuts the door behind him, and locks it for good measure.

She’s pale; half a shade darker than the bedsheets and hospital gown; dark hair limp around her face. She’s hooked up to two separate monitors and a whole bunch of tubes. All this machinery is the only thing keeping her alive.

He pushes the monitor’s button and holds it until the beeping stops. The tubes are next, pulled out one by one and neatly laid to the side. The fingers of her left hand twitch, once.

_He follows Don Falcone into the bedroom. There’s an adjacent suite, smaller in size but still comfortable, where he offers Victor a night’s rest. Victor respectfully declines. He’s never needed much sleep anyway._

_The don gets dressed and settles into bed. He leans back into the pillows and closes his eyes._

_“You’ve always been the loyal son, Victor.” Don Falcone says, though his eyes stay closed. “Never forget that.”_

He secures the pillow over her face and holds it in place. Her hands twitch, but there is no other movement. All motor function is gone, scrambled by the bullet in her head.

It takes seven minutes. Then she stops twitching. He withdraws the pillow and set it under her head again. Checks her pulse with two fingers. Silence.

He unlocks the door and walks out. Someone will find her within the hour.


End file.
